


Right Here Waiting For You

by voiceoftreason



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Post Reichenbach, Reichenbach Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-31
Updated: 2013-01-31
Packaged: 2017-11-27 15:02:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/663364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voiceoftreason/pseuds/voiceoftreason
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on Right Here Waiting by Richard Marx. <br/>Very sad/angsty Reichenbach feelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Right Here Waiting For You

**Author's Note:**

> I was listening to Kurt Schneider's cover of Right Here Waiting and couldn't shake the Reichenbach feelings I associate with it. It's beautiful and so very perfect. 
> 
> Enjoy!

"Wherever you go, whatever you do

I will be right here waiting for you

Whatever it takes or how my heart breaks

I will be right here waiting for you"

 

John sat in his chair, staring at the empty one across from him. Sherlock should be sat there, but he was gone. 

 

He cast his gaze downwards, willing for the thoughts to leave him again, for the numbness he felt after it first happened to return. He was awash with contrasting emotions; Grief: Sherlock was dead. Hope: Sherlock was better than that. He had to still be out there somewhere. He would come home soon. 

 

He didn't know where he was, he didn't know what he was up to. He didn't know why he wasn't sat in 221B, his palms together, hands steepled under him chin, lying on the sofa. He just hoped, that he was still alive. Whether this was true or not, he knew that he would wait; to break completely, to join him, or for his return. 

 

\------

 

"I took for granted, all the times

That I thought would last somehow

I hear the laughter, I taste the tears

But I can't get near you now"

 

Sherlock sat in the corner of the small cafe growling in frustration at the inconveniently slow Internet connection. Damn public wifi connections. Sure he could have used Mycroft's or St Barts' or even Scotland Yards? But the possibility of his history being tracked back to any of his acquaintances was not one he wanted to risk. Not now; not any more. 

 

He was struggling, everyday to disentangle and destroy each connection in moriarty's web. He needed to go back to John. He needed his blogger. He needed his awe when he made a deduction, he needed his laugh; the only one that laughed **_with_** Sherlock (god he missed hearing that laugh), he needed his stability, his constancy. He needed John to conduct the light from inside. 

 

He had no idea how he had become so attached, it had just happened. One day the pair were flat mates, the next they were essential for one another. He had acknowledged it only when faced with the danger of losing him. Before, he had just taken his presence for granted, thinking it would be there forever, not knowing quite how much it meant.

 

He remembered how painful it was to have to leave him. How he stood on the rooftop, ready to fall, knowing that the hardest part would be being apart from John. The phone call was all it took, to break him, to cause the great Sherlock Holmes to cry. He could still taste them: the first tears that escaped him.

 

He let out a strangled cry as the web page once again failed to load. This was all so tedious. Moriarty was dead. Why was the devastation so hard to fix?


End file.
